by Stuart Woods
—
MILLIE’S FIRST IMPRESSION of the airplane was of its enormous size. She had flown aboard Boeing 747s—who hadn’t? But she had always entered the airplane through the boarding tunnel and had seen only that part of the interior in which she was seated. Now, after she was deposited at the bottom of the rear boarding steps, the giant airplane loomed over her. After someone took her luggage, someone else checked her name off a list, and someone else passed a security wand over her body, she was surprised at how long the climb up the stairs was. One engine was already running. She was directed past the press and security and guest areas forward to the senior staff area, which was over the wing root. Holly was already there, seated in a large chair, her briefcase open on the floor beside her, reading papers.
“Good morning,” Holly said. “What do you think?” She waved an arm around.
“‘Spectacular’ is the only word I can come up with.”
“Good word. The president will be aboard in ten minutes, and shortly after takeoff we’ll brief her in her office, up front.”
Millie nodded.
“I want her to know every step we’ve taken in the search for the Three Stooges, which is how I’ve come to think of our carefully cultivated moles. The twins are Larry and Curly, Dr. Riis is Moe.” Holly looked at her quizzically. “It’s just occurred to me that you are probably not old enough to know who the Three Stooges were.”
“I saw the movie about them on TV, and I watched a couple of shorts on the Internet, so I’ve got the general idea.”
“I’m always impressed by the depth and breadth of your knowledge,” Holly said.
“It’s the Harvard education. I have a question.”
“Spit it out.”
“You mentioned MI6, which is the foreign intelligence service. I would have thought we would be dealing with MI5, which covers the domestic side, like our FBI.”
“I suppose we could do it that way,” Holly replied, “but the people we’re looking for are foreign agents, and anyway, the president already has an established relationship with Dame Felicity Devonshire, the head of MI6, dating back to her time as director of Central Intelligence and before. They’re quite good friends.”
“I see.”
“It’s possible a name will come up in conversation: Stone Barrington.”
“I think I read something about him in Vanity Fair: New York lawyer, murdered wife?”
“That’s the one. As it happens, he is a friend of the president, of Dame Felicity, and of mine.”
“That’s an intriguing set of acquaintances,” Millie said. “I don’t suppose I should inquire as to the nature of those relationships?”
“You should not. You may recall that his name came up during the presidential campaign, when some people hinted at something intimate between Stone and the candidate. That was entirely false—they are, as the cliché goes, just good friends.”
“What about Dame Felicity and you?”
“As another cliché goes, none of your business.”
Millie nodded. “Got it.” She glanced out a window and was surprised to find that the big airplane was already moving. She had not even heard the second engine start. “I take it the president is aboard,” she said.
“The airplane always goes the moment she arrives.”
“No waiting around the airport lounge, huh?”
“Not even the VIP lounge. Fasten your seat belt.”
—
AFTER A FEW minutes the seat belt sign went off and a woman appeared in the doorway. “The president will see you now.”
They followed her past a large galley and a room that seemed filled with medical equipment, then through a door and into the president’s airborne office, which would not have seemed large if it had not been on an airplane. Katharine Lee sat at her desk, tapping the keys of an Apple Air laptop. She looked up.
“Good morning, Holly, and good morning, Millie. Good to meet you. I’ve been hearing good things.”
“Good morning, Madam President,” Millie managed to say. She had not blushed since she was twelve, but she felt the warmth rising as she took a built-in seat next to Holly.
“Tell me about the Three Stooges,” Kate said. “What’s the latest?”
Holly gave her a summary and all the credit to Millie.
“That’s a very good start,” she said. “I’m having lunch with Dame Felicity Devonshire tomorrow, and I’d like you both there. She already knows about Larry and Curly. Millie, I’d like you to brief her on what we know about Moe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Millie said. She and Holly rose and returned to their cabin. To Millie’s surprise, one of the three chairs was occupied by the secretary of state, former senator Sam Meriwether, who greeted them cordially.
Pretty good company you’re traveling in, Millie, she thought.
31
DINO GOT a phone call in the middle of lunch. He listened, then covered the phone. “We’re invited to have dinner with the commissioner of Metropolitan Police,” he called to Stone. “You two up for that?”
“Sure,” Stone called back.
Dino spoke into the phone again, then hung up. “The Garrick Club at eight o’clock,” he said.
“Sounds great.” Stone had been to the Garrick Club a couple of times, and he loved the place.
—
TONY DEPOSITED them in front of the Garrick Club. “I’ll be nearby,” he said, handing Stone his card.
They walked into the club and up a few stairs. They were met in the entrance hall by a couple.
“Sir Martin,” Dino said, shaking his hand. “This is my wife, Vivian, and my friends Stone Barrington and Pat Frank. This is Sir Martin Beveridge and his wife, Elizabeth.”
Everyone shook hands and they went into the main dining room, where the walls were hung with portraits of famous actors and paintings of scenes from various dramas. They were seated at a round corner table and champagne was brought. Sir Martin raised his glass. “To Anglo-American friendship,” he said, and they drank. “Now,” Sir Martin continued, “we are Martin and Liz—I hope we may all be informal.”
Everyone murmured assent, and they drank their champagne.
Stone looked up to see two couples entering the dining room and being seated a few tables away. “Look who’s here,” he whispered to Pat. One of the men was Paul Reeves.
“Ignore him,” Pat whispered back.
The conversation over dinner was about everything but police matters, until, as dessert arrived, their host turned toward Dino. “Dino, I want you to know that I am grateful to your people for alerting us to the presence of a fugitive American, this Keyes fellow, a double murderer, I believe.”
“You’re very welcome, Martin, but you should know that it was Stone who alerted my people to his presence here.”
“Then I extend our thanks to you, too, Stone.”
“You’re welcome, Martin, and you should also know that the man who transported Keyes to Britain in his private jet, however unknowing he may have been, is sitting three tables from us to your right, with his back against the wall. His name is Paul Reeves.”
“In my club? Good God!” There was irony in his voice. “One can’t go anywhere these days without encountering the criminal classes.”
Pat spoke up. “I should tell you, Martin, that Mr. Reeves is a respected businessman in his hometown of Dallas, Texas. I’ve known him for some years, and I’m sure he has no idea that Kevin Keyes is a wanted man.”
“However,” Stone said, “Mr. Reeves might be helpful in locating Keyes.”
“Would you excuse me for a moment, please?” Martin said. He rose and left the room, then returned a couple of minutes later. Nothing more was said of Reeves or Keyes.
—
THEY LINGERED over port and Stilton for a while, then made their way to the foyer and their
coats. Reeves and his party had left five minutes ahead of them. As they said their goodbyes at the curb, where Tony and the commissioner’s cars were waiting, Stone heard his name called. He looked across the street and saw Paul Reeves talking to two men, while the rest of his party stood by waiting.
“Stone!” Reeves called again.
“I’ll be right back,” Stone said to his group. He walked across the street. “What is it?” he asked.
“I’m being questioned by the police,” Reeves said, “and I need a lawyer.”
“I’m afraid I’m not licensed to practice in Britain,” Stone said. “I suggest you be as helpful to the police as you possibly can, and if you are further detained, call the American embassy and ask for legal assistance.”
“Thanks a lot,” Reeves said acidly to Stone’s departing back.
“What was that about?” Dino asked when they were in the car.
“Reeves wanted a lawyer. I told him I’m unlicensed here and to cooperate with the police, and if he needs further help, to call the embassy.”
“How do you know this guy Reeves?”
“I met him for the first time at Turnbull & Asser this afternoon.”
“And you, Pat?”
“On the recommendation of Cessna, I handled the acceptance of his new airplane from the factory,” she said. “His insurance company had recommended me as a mentor pilot when he bought his last airplane a few years ago. That’s it.”
“Perhaps these coincidences will come to an end now,” Stone said. “Dino, we’re getting out of here to go to the country tomorrow morning. Pat checked, and you’re okay to remain in the suite. We’ll be back in a few days.”
32
MILLIE WAITED with Holly in a closed road behind the American embassy for the president to come down.
Holly looked around her. “The last time I was here someone had driven a delivery truck into this alley and unloaded a large crate outside that door down there.” She pointed. “When the bomb it contained went off, it blew a chunk out of the building and injured people in every direction. There were a couple of dozen dead, too.”
Millie didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t respond.
Her phone rang, and she answered it. “Yes?”
“It’s Quentin,” he said.
“Pretty early in the morning in California, isn’t it?”
“I’m back in D.C. I took the red-eye, and I haven’t been to bed yet.”
“Anything new?”
“We met with the head of the business school at UCLA yesterday afternoon.”
“Did you get anywhere?”
“We didn’t have a name or a photograph, but when I described Riis and his taste in fashion and cars, the president’s executive assistant, who had been a student at the time, remembered him, and they even had a record of him. He was registered under the name of Harold Charles St. John Malvern, and his record showed him as having studied at Eton and Oxford. He was at UCLA for a little more than a semester, right before he turned up at Berkeley as Jacob Riis. He was British and something of a ladies’ man, it seems. Our office out there is trying to run down some of his female acquaintances, and, overnight, his record at UCLA was scrutinized. He was highly recommended by the head of his college at Oxford, the headmaster at Eton, and two members of the House of Lords—all forged, of course, but beautiful forgeries that impressed our lab. The letterheads were real, and the signatures appeared to be genuine, until the gentlemen denied any knowledge of Harry, as he was called.”
“Good work!”
“It’s ongoing. I’m going to get some sleep now, and I’ll call you when I have more. Bye.”
A gate at the other end of the alley opened and, led by two Metropolitan Police vehicles and followed by as many black SUVs, the president’s limousine pulled up by the door where the bomb had been placed. Holly and Millie waited by the car until the president emerged a minute later, talking on her cell phone, and they followed her into the car.
Millie sat back in her jump seat and was impressed by the foot-thick car doors and the two-inch-thick glass in the windows. She had never felt safer. The president continued her phone conversation until they had driven through an alley behind the anonymous building that housed MI6 and had been greeted at the door by Dame Felicity Devonshire. Only then did she hang up her phone and introduce Holly.
“Holly and I have met, of course,” Dame Felicity said. “How are you, my dear?”
“Very well, Dame Felicity,” Holly said. “May I introduce my colleague Millicent Martindale?”
Millie was greeted warmly and followed the group into an elevator that opened into an elegant foyer that opened into Dame Felicity’s large office, which Millie thought looked more like an Oxford library than a workspace. A gleaming burled walnut table in the center of the room had been set for lunch with handsome silver and beautiful china, but they were first shown to sofas and chairs across the room.
Chitchat was kept to a minimum. “We’re anxious to hear about any progress on your investigation of the Eton twins,” the president said, “and, of course, we’ll bring you up to date on our investigation.”
“Madam President, immediately after I received your telephone call and your request, I assigned various groups to the task,” Dame Felicity said. She opened a file folder and consulted her notes. “The twins led a sequestered existence at Eton,” she said. “They showed no interest in athletics at the school and devoted themselves to language studies and reading. They were cared for by a well-tailored gentleman, not British, but a reasonable facsimile, who took rooms at a local inn, where he received the boys on a weekly basis. They always returned with fresh haircuts and, we suspect, their blond hair retouched at the roots.
“On the pretense of an audit of the Devin Bank by the Bank of England, records were unearthed of the money that flowed through the bank to pay the boys’ expenses, which were considerable. The funds were transferred from the Bank of Dahai, in the small sultanate of the same name, which is sandwiched between Yemen and Oman, on the southern border of Saudi Arabia. The funds originated from the account of one Sheik Hari Mahmoud, a shadowy figure who hovered around the edges of the sultan’s court, and who was said to own more camels and goats than any man in the kingdom save the sultan himself. The source of this display of wealth was, of course, not livestock but oil, with which the kingdom is richly endowed.
“On the day the boys left Eton, we believe them to have been taken directly to Heathrow Airport, from whence a large private aircraft belonging to the sultan departed for Dahai. There is no record with customs and immigration of the boys having been seen at Heathrow, but they have not been seen anywhere since. An inquiry at the London embassy of Dahai met with blank stares and a denial of any knowledge of the twins. That is where we are at the moment, but we have assets in Dahai, and the investigation is being pursued there.”
“Thank you, Dame Felicity,” the president said. “Holly, what have you to report?”
Holly recounted the investigation to the point where the head of the economics department at Berkeley was interviewed. “I believe my colleague Millicent has later information to report.” She turned to Millie and waited.
“Madam President, Dame Felicity,” Millie began, “I have had the most recent report from our FBI agents in California only a few minutes ago. The agent in charge of the investigation, Special Agent Quentin Phillips, informs us that a man using the alias of Jacob Riis was hired by the economics department of the University of California at Berkeley to teach a class on the economics of oil production in the Mideast. He subsequently left without giving notice, and an investigation into his background and references conducted by the university yielded only that his name and credentials were false.
“Armed with only a physical description of the man, Special Agent Phillips called on the head of the business school at the University of California at Los An
geles, a member of whose staff recognized the description of the man in question and identified him as one Harold Charles St. John Malvern, a British subject and a student at UCLA fifteen years ago, who arrived with references from Eton, Oxford, and two members of the House of Lords, and who spent less than a full academic year at the university before disappearing. The FBI has since confirmed that all of these references were forgeries, albeit very good ones. And that is where we stand at the moment. I regret that this information is so fresh that we have not yet compiled a written report, but you will have one before the day is out.”
“Thank you, Miss Martindale,” Dame Felicity said. “It appears that we all have an intriguing mystery to solve. Now, may we have lunch?” She moved to the table, and her guests followed.
The conversation at lunch was fairly inconsequential, but Millie found it fascinating. She did not speak unless spoken to.
33
STONE AND PAT were downstairs at nine AM sharp, and Tony met them with the Jaguar and turned over the keys. “It’s keyless entry, Mr. Barrington, and there’s a start button, but your foot must be on the brake. The knob on the center console is the gearshift, foot on the brake again. The engine is a diesel, and the tank is full. There’s a GPS navigator built in. Would you like instructions?”
“I can handle that, Tony,” Pat said.
Tony handed her some maps. “These might come in handy at times,” he said.
The bellman arrived with their luggage and stowed it in the boot. Stone tipped him, thanked Tony for his help, tipped him, and they drove the car out through a short tunnel into Buckingham Gate. Stone followed the road to Buckingham Palace, around the roundabout, and thence to Hyde Park Corner, from where they headed west.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to make a stop,” Pat said.
“Where?”
“Stonehenge.”
“Put it into the GPS.” She did, and a voice began to speak in BBC English.
“Pat,” Stone said, “I have to ask you something.”
